


Someone Gets Hurt

by RainyRinReina



Series: Reina's Vague Art Fics [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Charles as Regina George, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Song fic, TW: Blood, kinda spoiling it with the tags, morally questionable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 21:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21434992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyRinReina/pseuds/RainyRinReina
Summary: [REUPLOAD]"It’s just some fun to fill the lonely nights. Another night in another hotel identical to all the others. It’s only meaningless fun, something to burn off the intense emotions that every race leaves behind. It’s only flirting, and it’s fine to flirt, no one has to know what goes on behind locked doors.It’s only fun until someone gets hurt. Until one of them has nothing left to give but still craves more."Or in other words; a vague fic based on Mean Girls: The Musical and Regina’s best song; Someone Gets Hurt that I wrote at 2am on my phone, rewrote a dozen times, posted on here months ago, deleted, then rewrote again, and posted again.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Everyone
Series: Reina's Vague Art Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557073
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Someone Gets Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah I'm reuploading this, I found the emails with the comments and kudos and I remembered how grateful I was. There are minor tweaks but I think it works better this time.

“Describe the 2020 World Championship in one word.”

“Perfect. Just like the champion.” Flash a smile, laugh with the journalist. “It is a joke. Magical is the word I want to use.” Smile again, look away for a moment, thank them for their time, say goodbye, move on to the next journalist.

** _Yes, I look perfect_ **

** _Ice Queen, that's what you see _ **

Every story about him starts with his eyes, those deep eyes filled with wonder that no one will ever agree on a single colour label. But it's not just the eyes, it's the fluffy waves of hair so soft that everyone (even well respected World Champions) wants to run their fingers through. It's the lean figure that retained a teenage lankiness providing an ageless appearance. It’s the charming nature that makes every journalist simply adore him. It's the fact that he looks, and behaves like a prince.

He is a prince, minus the title. An heir ready to claim the throne, waiting with the heart of solid compact ice that will lead him to reigning as a ruthless king. Sometimes his eyes look like ice too, other times they just have this calculating frostiness to them.

** _It's what they all expect from me_ **

** _But it's all show_ **

He's manipulative, deceptive, a cheat bending the rules to gain any advantage. Half of them murmur their opinions. But he's so humble, sincere, and so damn polite to everyone. The other half screams their opinions from the rooftops. They're the fools, the ones who fell for his act. You have to manipulative to make it to where you’re considered one the best, but he takes it to the next level. He fabricates the illusion of a perfect prince for the fans. An illusion that is substituted for the polar opposite for those dark nights in hotel rooms. His characters contradict each other, creating a paradox none of them understands.

At night he’s not charming, he’s the definition of desperation. He pleads and craves until they either surrender to temptation or suppress his sounds with their hands around his throat. One way or another, he stops begging and starts giving back to them. They wouldn’t be there if he didn’t contribute. Give some to get some, to put it less eloquently.

** _Face it, you used me_ **

Anyone who couldn’t comprehend the truth would make career-ending accusations against them. They'll declare they used him. He's the one using them. He’s using all of them but he’ll always insist they’re using him. He’ll insist they left him when he was at his lowest emotionally and physically, exhausted and drowning in sweat (mixed into other bodily fluids too indecent for a mention in any reputable publication) when he always pushed them away.

It’s only a game to him, using people but constantly making them feel like they used him. The game works, they leave feeling more alive than the best races of their careers left them, none the wiser to the truth. For a while.

** _You saw the sexy clothes_ **

** _My supermodel pose_ **

Given where he was born and raised it’s no surprise he dresses better than all of them, even the ones with their own clothing lines. Givenchy, Moncler, Burberry, Gucci, Balenciaga, Fendi. You name it he’s worn it and ruined it. None of them understand his obsession with destroying shirts costing hundreds with knives swiped from restaurant tables and scissors ‘borrowed’ from garages but it’s better than the alternative. Destroy the clothes instead of him.

He looks up from where he kneels on the carpet, those eyes once again playing a part in the act. Even the way he kneels draws people in. Most pornstars couldn't even look that seductive on their knees. But it's always the eyes that finish everything off, paired with mascara coated eyelashes long enough for him to look through. His eyes are dark tonight, but maybe it's the lust filling the air. He would kneel for hours if it meant they would use him in the way he craved. Maybe use isn’t the right word…

He needed to be absolutely physically ruined. And they were going to give it to him.

** _But did you know?_ **

“Did you know?” A fleeting whisper exchanged between all of them when he’s not looking, he played them. All of them under the impression he was only seeing one of them. He’d chase one of them out of his room, clean up and then summon another one in to do it all again. Night after night, he’d go through at least three of them.

Once they knew they changed the game rules, ganging up against him. Two drivers, three drivers, four drivers, maybe even five or six or seven.

** _Was I a game to you?_ **

** _Was I way too cool?_ **

** _I truly cared_ **

** _Was I the fool?_ **

Years later, when they've retired and escaped his web of lies, they'll question if it was an act or genuine. Then they'll remember the crocodile tears, the way he worked his way into their heads (and hearts) only to snatch the only thing they had left, the wins and championships, all without ever looking behind him. All contrasted by the scars he begged them for night after night, something so dark and depraved but filled with a level of trust they didn’t even give to their mechanics.

He acted like he treasured every moment they were together. Every second meant more than a tenth in qualifying. Of course, he’d found a way to trade feelings in the bedroom for pole positions. When he pulled them into his room post-victory, those nights were euphoric compared to when they used to win.

** _It's fine for you_ **

** _It's fine to flirt_ **

Is begging your fellow drivers to tie you to the bed and play dangerous games with your body really flirting? The English (and Australian) drivers would excuse it as an honest mistake from someone who didn’t speak the language from infancy. The other drivers knew he was making intentional mistakes, all part of his act.

** _It's fine 'Till someone gets hurt_ **

** _'Till someone gets hurt_ **

In the early days, he'd thank them countless times over room service breakfasts. Tell them it meant so much for them to do this. Glorious times of unforgettable nights. Then he started hurting, begging them to leave as soon as they came. Endless jealousy, questioning every love bite that wasn’t his, screaming when it wasn't his turn to feel loved. They had lives and families beyond driving, he didn’t.

Jealousy? No. Addiction.

** _Feel my heart beating?_ **

** _I'm just like her or you_ **

** _People forget I'm human too_ **

** _Yes, they do that_ **

"I'm human too!" He'd scream at them. Hysterical tears would fall, coating his lashes with glittering teardrops and marking his cheeks with glistening trails. There was nothing human about him, no one could play everyone as he did and still be human. The ones that didn't know would say the losses of his childhood had broken him deep inside. Evidence would say he's always been that way, even before the tragedies.

Withdrawal. Soul destroying, nauseating withdrawal.

** _This is performance_ **

** _This is all self-defence_ **

** _I thought you had the sense to see through that_ **

When everything began to fall apart, when the truth dripped out piece by piece, when his perfect illusion showed its widening cracks. That's when they realised how goddamn fucked over they all were. They'd done everything, risked everything, maybe even lost everything all for a liar. He had the nerve to tell them it was their fault for not seeing through the impenetrable act.

It was their fault. It had always been their fault.

** _Was I too proud with you?_ **

** _Was I too cold and forbidding?_ **

In the aftermath, he would arrive unannounced at dinner. How he even knew where they were would remain a mystery. But he was there, real and genuine for once. The coldness replaced by mildness, the strong sense of pride replaced by a sense of unknowing, lies replaced by a lack of answers, politeness replaced by crippling shyness. The real him, a broken child forced to be a hero in the stead of another.

** _And you chose her over me_ **

** _Are you kidding?_ **

It didn't last long, once he saw the photos. They'd all tried to move on, find happiness after everything he did. He was absolutely livid.

How could they choose normality over him? Marriage and babies over the best fuck they’d ever get? It’s ridiculous.

** _Are you kidding?_ **

They wouldn't see him again for a while. He clearly wasn't as ready as he thought he was. Maybe one day the real person hidden deep inside would be set free, maybe he'd be the one they wanted.

By then it would be too late, half of them would be dead, the rest dying. A strange curse from fate that he’d outlive them all.

** _Poor little me_ **

** _All trapped in this fabulous show_ **

The most glamorous athletes in the world, exhausted and drenched in kilos of their own sweat. Waiting for news in silence, not even daring to pray. The cameras around them watching and waiting for a reaction. The way they all waited created the possibility in their minds that maybe, they were all addicted to him. Just like he was addicted to them.

The time for media backlash was not now, but that time would come. They’d get nothing. He’d given them all they needed to know after the race. People would talk of his meltdown after taking second there after winning every single race since the season opener. They’d talk of how he screamed until his team had dragged him away into the depths of their hospitality, screw the podium. They’d talk of a perfect season ruined by an inexperienced marshall.

Whoever took that win would regret it until the day they died. The only race no one wanted to win.

** _You could set me free_ **

** _But if you're going, go!_ **

Later that night he’d summon them all to his bed, texts for the older drivers and suggestive snaps for the younger ones. He wanted out, but they chose to leave him behind.

“Help me.”

“You’ve been beyond saving for too long.”

** _It's fine for you_ **

** _It's fine to flirt_ **

Ropes, knives, belts, scissors, handcuffs, ice, lingerie, mascara. They all had something that made their time with him unique. Some wanted him to be vocal, some wanted him to ‘be a good boy’ and keep his mouth shut. It didn’t matter who he was with, they all had the same effect on him.

“S’il vous plaît!” A pause, a moan, “Putain!"

** _And God, you're hot_ **

** _Why do you even wear a shirt?_ **

“God, you’re hot.” They all knew he got off on praise. He craved praise almost as much as he craved the pain. The words alone had him falling apart in their arms, his desperate whine the only sound that mattered. As he bared his neck the mix of blood, sweat, and tears dripped down. Another shirt ruined. Why even wear one when it’ll just get ruined.

Burning the clothes to hide the evidence is all part of the game. Is it really evidence if its legal? Morally questionable? Absolutely. Illegal? Depends on the country.

** _Damn, you're fine!_ **

“Damn, you’re fine!” Flirting masked as banter, code for “My room, you can do whatever you want tonight.” The sweet accent and laughs fooled anyone who overheard. If only they knew...

They never learned the truth, he thought of what could happen if they knew. They would never know, to them, it was just heartless nights in dark hotels. To him it was power and distraction. Eventually, it would become his main addiction and he'd hang on their every word craving everything like a junkie. Addiction only made him stronger. Strong enough to take everything without them even noticing he'd taken their wins, their championships, their records, their fame, their fans, their souls.

** _And it's fine until someone gets Hurt!_ **

Charles Leclerc took everything from his fellow drivers and he knew how his downfall would occur. He was a perfect prince, reigning from a throne made of thousands of intricate pieces crafted by his army in Maranello. Princes don't fall, because the prince always has the biggest army, at least when the prince drives for Ferrari.

“Charles, how do you respond to the allegations against you from your fellow drivers?”

“They are jealous that I am world champion this year and they are not.” The snappy response a microscopic break in character, unseen by most. “Please, do not take this the wrong way.”

“So it's all false. Just jealous lies?”

“I like to think that... It is true we have done… things together in the past but nothing like what they are saying. Excuse me, I have a podium to stand on.” Smile, wave to the fans, breathe.

“Thank you, Charles, 2020 champion everyone!” Smile even brighter, wave again, maybe even blow a kiss, now walk to the weighbridge. Away from the cameras, snort and roll your eyes. Even after everything they were all so gullible.

** _'Till someone gets hurt!_ **

The blood didn’t show through the red overalls but it did show through the Nomex underlayers. But it’s not like it was the first time he ruined a shirt. This time was different though, this time it actually hurt. It hurt so bad he couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

They were real tears.

Real tears with no one to wipe them dry.


End file.
